I’m back in the room again, facing the mirror that he watches me through. It’s important that I pretend not to know that he’s there. If he wanted eye contact there’d be no need for the mirror.

I smile at myself. I look good today. It’s summer in the world outside and my simple print dress and bare feet have carried the season with me. I make a show of pulling down one strap of the dress and looking over my shoulder into the mirror so that I can check my tan. I stand on tiptoe to do this. It looks cute and it shows off my naked legs. I pout at some imagined sunburn, pull the strap back into place and adjust my hair. Only then do I turn towards the room.

I know this room means something to him. It more a shrine for him to worship at than it is a stage for me to perform on. It’s a teenage girl’s room, decorated with a regrettable nod towards Malibu Barbie that is not quite rescued by the rock posters on the wall. They date back to the nineties, when Jon Bon Jovi still had chest hair. I think it’s supposed to be my room. The question is, who am I supposed to be? First love? Lost love? Sister? No, let’s not go there. I won’t be able to do this right if I keep those thoughts in my head. Besides his assistant made it clear that he just wants me to be myself.

I sit on the edge of the huge (pukey-pink bed, side on to the mirror, and let me feet dangle. Then I spot the box on the dressing table. There is always a present somewhere. I bound off the bed to inspect it. A small box wrapped in shiny silver paper with a pink ribbon. I shake it. Something too solid to rattle and quite light. I don’t have to feign my curiosity as I rip off the paper. His presents tell me his mood and his mood tells me what to do.

The first present was a silver hairbrush. I spent most of the hour sitting naked before the mirror, bending my head to one side and brushing my long blonde hair. I love doing that. I feel like a cat licking itself. Sitting there, knowing I was being watched, putting myself into a trance with the rhythm of the brush, it seemed natural, towards the end, to part my legs and slide the smooth silver handle between my labia. It was warm from my hand. Not the ideal shape, but I liked the idea of it. The handle had initials engraved on it, his initials probably. I thought about them inside me, a token of his presence. I pictured the curves of the letters slowly being flooded with my juices. I came imagining him holding the brush afterwards, sniffing it, maybe even tasting it.

At the end of the session, his assistant told me that her employer, that’s how she always refers to him, “my employer”, had been very pleased with me. I got a bonus in recognition of my natural talent. And, of course, I got invited back.

Inside the box is a butt plug. We are not going for subtlety today. Hands up those who can think of 101 uses for a butt plug? I pick it up. It’s purple, six inches long, curved, fat, flanged and made of warm-to-the-touch latex. It reminds me absurdly of Barney the dinosaur. What do you call a Dino butt plug? A fuckedtilsaurus. Good job I lubed in advance, like a good girl scout. I hold Barney by the flange and waggle him about. I can’t help but giggle, he looks so ridiculously male: potent and ungainly. It will take a while to come with just Barney in my arse.

I never fake my orgasms. I’m sure he knows that. I think it’s one of the reasons that he keeps inviting me back. I suspect the other reason is that I look like whomever this room used to belong to.

His assistant approached me after my first performance in the University Drama Society. I was playing Lulu in a very realistic production, performed in the round, in a space so small I could smell the audience. I spent most of the play wearing nothing but underwear and at one point I rode a rather fat student around the floor, making him crawl on all fours while I hit him with a riding crop. Ah, the things we do for art.

I’d seen her in the audience for every performance in our four-night run. She didn’t speak to me until the party after the last performance. I’d assumed (well perhaps hoped is a more accurate word) that she was some kind of talent scout. I wasn’t wrong, but I wasn’t quite right either.

“Would you describe yourself as broadminded, Angela?” she asked.

This wasn’t what I had expected. I wondered if she was chatting me up. As it happens, I am broadminded enough to be flattered by attention from an attractive woman. I let my eyes flick across her figure to show my interest.

“I’m always open to new experiences,” I said, “actually this was my first time playing horsy in public.”

She didn’t laugh, but she did smile. The kind of smile that says, “high spirits are a wonderful thing in the young, but can we please get on.”

“What do you want me to be broadminded about?”

“My employer would find you interesting. He would like you to perform for him, privately.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“You don’t look like a pimp.”

“And you don’t look like a whore, Angela, despite your recent performance. That is what makes you interesting.”

She handed me her card: plain, white, with “Emma Smithson” and a telephone number in embossed black Times New Roman lettering. I’d admired its sparseness.

“Please contact me Angela. I think you would find it most rewarding.”

Ten days later I was coming hard with a hairbrush sticking out of me. Who would have thought it? Four sessions later and my only reaction to Barney is amusement. Actually, that’s not quite true. There is also anticipation. I enjoy these sessions. They… stretch me. Although frankly I don’t think Barney will stretch me much.

Time to get a move on. Or at least, time to get my clothes off. Holding Barney in my mouth, I turn towards the mirror and strip, slowly. My nipples look good: long, eager, young, ready.

The Ottoman at the foot of the bed is the obvious place for today’s session, which I have mentally christened “Angela a la grecque”, although the tabloids would call it, “Angie gets her A Levels.”

I want him to see everything, my face, my poor abused arse, my pointy nipples, my wet sex. I want him to be spoiled for choice as to where to look. Mirrorman is about to find out how a butt should be plugged.

I sit on the floor with my back against the Ottoman. O.K., here’s where all those bloody ballet lessons pay off. Slowly, never taking my eyes off my image in the mirror, I place my left leg behind my head. How’s that for a crowd pleaser? There was a risk that I would look ridiculous, but I don’t, I look spectacular. In this position I am completely exposed. No, exposed makes me sound too vulnerable. I don’t feel vulnerable. I am Super Slut, ready to take on the man of steel, or, in this case, latex. I decide I am displayed, not exposed.

I won’t be able to hold this for long so I’m going to make it good. I take Barney out of my mouth and reach below my raised leg. Pressing up against my arse, he feels a lot bigger than when he was in my mouth. Maybe that’s why men like anal sex, it makes them all feel like big boys. I close my eyes and allow myself a short, unfaked, grimace as I push him home. I close behind him like I’m never going to let him go. Now he does feel like a Dinosaur. I wouldn’t want to be any fuller than that.

I open my eyes again and look down at myself. All that is visible of Barney is a purple flange with a little dimple in it. I look as though I have a corkscrew up my arse. I press against the dimple. It’s nice. It would be nicer if there was a vibrator to rest there. I repeat this a few times. Much better than I expected but not enough to get me off.

Well, I’d been told to be myself and I circumstances like these my natural reaction is to cheat. I keep one hand on Barney and push two fingers from the other into my mouth. I suck them down and get them nice and shiny. They slide into my sex and are embraced like long lost friends. But I’m not taking them their normal route. They are on their way to meet Barney. There he is, just the other side of this thin wall of flesh. Actually, that feels good.

Time for my mental movie. Today’s feature stars Mirrorman, his assistant and me. He’s behind me of course, in the Barney position, so I can’t seem him. The lovely Emma is in front of me, pushing her fingers into me, stroking her employer from inside of me, still working for him even when she’s servicing me. I force her head onto my breast, trying to smother her as a punishment for wanting him more than she wants me. She likes it, the slut. She sucks on me and ignores him. Take that Mirrorman. He pushes deeper into me but she has found my happy button and matters are becoming very pressing. The movie is making me laugh as well as making me hot. For the first time in a long time, I’m grinning when the come finally hits me.

Phew!

I lower my leg. I’m going to be sore there for a couple of days. I stand up and Barney reminds me of his presence. The extraction, performed with me standing, bent at the waist, back to the mirror, leaves me breathless and with a sense of being empty and gaping. Thank God it was only Barney and not Godzilla, that’s all I can say.

In that moment of semi-blindness while my dress slips over my head, it becomes clear to me that I am happy. Very, very happy.

Clothed and almost demure again, I give way to an impulse that may mean I’m not invited here again. I run forward to the mirror and give it a big “thank you” kiss. Then I grin. On my way out, I wave. Happiness should always be celebrated.

© 2002 Mike Kimera. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.